


The Worst Birthday in Recent History

by miss_nettles_wife



Category: Eerie Indiana: The Other Dimension
Genre: Blood, M/M, Weirdness, multi dimensional communication, warewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 09:43:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14078145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_nettles_wife/pseuds/miss_nettles_wife
Summary: Mitchell's birthday dinner goes wrong when a weirdness rip re-opens.





	The Worst Birthday in Recent History

**Author's Note:**

> written for the Eerie Indiana com challenge: Eerie Indiana: The Other Dimenson and Book Inspired challenges.

“We could have gone anywhere for my birthday.” Mitchell said, as they rounded the corner, inching forward in the line of rich and affluent towards the lone bookings table. The World O’ Stuff was doing their thanksgiving plates, the diner was always nice, his parents, even. Anywhere but this.

  
“You’re a Covington now, and Covingtons eat at five star restaurants on their birthdays.” If Mitchell were a crueller man, he might point out that they were in fact eating at a four and a half star restaurant and so called ‘gay marriage’ was illegal. But he doesn’t.

Stanley does.

 

“We don’t have any five star restaurants in Eerie. And you aren’t married.”

“Can’t you just accept that I’m doing something nice for you guys?” Rodney asked. He looks hurt. He came here a lot as a child, Mitchell’s mother has a picture of Rodney sitting alone next to a giant cake in their living room among the pictures of Mitchell’s graduation from medical school, Stanely winning the Young Entrepreneur award and Carrie’s first television appearance.

 

“We do appreciate it.” Mitchell assured him, placing a hand on Rodney’s arm, “It’s just…This isn’t really our scene, you know?” Rodney huffed. Mitchell’s scene had always been family dinners and comfortable nights spent watching Carrie’s soap opera with his parents and Stanley. Rodney came from a whole other world.

 

Mitchell is quite sure he’ll never forget the utter ruckus the media caused when a photo of them holding hands began to circulate. Apparently, outside of Eerie Rodney’s family were big news business CEO’s and they were not happy that some black sheep nephew was out there being gay. Rodney had of course, purposefully withheld this information from Mitchell on account of knowing how mad he was going to be about it.

 

They finally reached the little podium where the front of house was looking down at his sheet of bookings for the evening. Why there was a line here of all places, Mitchell didn’t know. And the front of house was a vampire. But he wasn’t causing trouble and Mitchell was retired from the weirdness game, so he did nothing about it.   
“Table for three in the name Covington.” Rodney said, adopting a whole new persona.

 

Apparently the vampire recognized the name Covington, as people tended to, and perked up at the sound of it.   
“A private booth on the top floor, yes?” the idea of a multistory restaurant was still bizarre to him, but he was glad that Rodney had chosen a slightly more secluded location.

They went up the stairs, glancing around at the location and taking it all in. Frankly, after the soylent green episode, Mitchell was surprised that the three of them were let in at all. They made their way to a table and settled in.

It was a pretty nice table, too. Nice linen cloth with no stains or wax spots whatsoever. He can’t stop himself picturing himself pulling it up over the face of one of his patients, but he doesn’t dwell on the image. Stanley was already perusing the menu and listing off things he might like to try.

Rodney placed an order for two wines and a Diet Coke. Wine for Rodney and Stanley, Diet Coke for him. He doesn’t make a big deal out of it, which is nice. He’s always been good about it, Rodney. The menu was a large multipaged affair with several headings for different meats and meal types. The font is cursive, supposedly to look more fancy than a plain old Times New Roman or Calibri. It doesn’t inspire images of the Arc d’ Triumph or the Eiffel Tower, but rather a headache from trying to read it.

Rodney doesn’t even need to open up the menu because he already knows what he wants, being a frequent, or an ex frequent currently reoccurring patron. Even so, Mitchell inquires   
“What are you going to have?”  
“Crab salad for the appetizer, then wagu for a main.” He replies, almost instantly.   
“I was thinking the light chicken soup myself.” Stanley said, flicking through the rest of the menu casually. Mitchell isn’t really sure that he wants either of those things and he doesn’t really want to read the menu so he took the easy way out.   
“I’ll just have whatever you have, Rod.” He decided, reaching out for a sip of his drink. Stanley took a long sip of wine. He pulled a face, unsatisfied with the selection. Mitchell has never missed wine, for all the other drinks he does. It tasted like old people and hospitals and God only knows Mitchell spends well enough time in a hospital surrounded by old people. Admittedly, though, those ones didn’t do a lot of talking.

Rodney put in the order when the waiter returned, plain ol’ human this time, and they sat back to wait for the delivery of food.   
“How was your birthday?” Stanley asked, “Get a nice fresh corpse?”  
“I got the one that they fished out of Lake Eerie, if that’s what you’re wondering.” Mitchell said, “We have a new branch of Silver Hand in town.”   
“A warewolf?” Rodney asked, interested.   
“Aye.”  
“You know ‘em?”  
“No. Know of ‘em though. One of the few good ones left in this town, not that it matters to the Silver Hand.” He said, unable to keep the tinge of malice from his voice. He knew that the Silver Hand had the best interests of society at heart but still, killing people simply on account of being a warewolf? Bigoted, if you asked him.  
“Ah. You know where they are, then?”   
“No, not yet. But I think I know someone who might.”   
“What are you going to do about it?”  
“Not sure yet.” Mitchell admitted. “If I do anything at all. I’m meant to be retired.” He said, knowing that he would probably never retire from the world of weirdness when it was all around him.

Rodney sniffed and then took a sip of his wine. His reaction is distinctly different to Stanley. Mitchell took a sip of Diet Coke. He’s trying to cut back on the sugar these days, with mixed results. He might look more grown up if he ordered a sparkling water, another thing he didn’t get. Sparkling water. If he wanted to burn the inside of his mouth on gross tasting water, he’d just drink from Lake Eerie, like any self respecting man.

“How was work?” He asked Rodney, trying to move the conversation away from his distinctly not dinner appropriate career.   
“Work was work.” He shrugged, “I sat in on meetings, I designed a new business card, I declined interview requests.”   
“Is your father ever going to let you do real work?”  
“Don’t count on it. Anyway, you’re a doctor. We’re made.”   
“I’m a coroner. I get paid peanuts.”   
“It’s true.” Stanley said, supportively.

The dinner was delivered by a third waiter and smelled…Rusty. Like…He looked up from his perfectly acceptable crab salad, which might actually have been the worst crab salad between here and Timbucktu and Mitchell wouldn’t know. Stanley’s bowl of light soup was…Red.   
“Is that-“ Rodney started, as the bowl began to bubble on the table.   
“Oh, Jesus.” Mitchell said, as it spat up read on both of them. He grabbed a nearby white napkin and held it up in front of his new suit to block the spray.   
“I thought you ordered a chicken soup!” Rodney said, unintentionally shrill.   
  
Other patrons at the location were having similar reactions not only to the soup, but to other entrees of the night. While Mitchell’s crab salad looked fine, the lady two tables away was being attacked by a selection of tiny crabs. The table next to her was being snapped at by oysters or muscles or…Actually he didn’t know what they were, he’s not particularly up to date on the hot seafood in town. Of course, there was a level of weirdness to be expected in an Eerie place of business, but this was off the charts. A waiter nearby took the shiny dome off the top of the soup at the meal of the … Was that the mayor?

The Mayor’s soup began to double in size, pushing itself out of the bowl, onto the tablecloth and lap, and chasing itself down the table and onto the nice, shiny floorboards. Mitchell tore his eyes away from the weirdness and back to Stanley, who was trying to keep the blood in the bowl with his hands. Before he can begin to help, Rodney started yelling too. Mitchell turned back around and reached out to yank the gruesome zombie crab off of Rodney’s tongue.

“Let’s get out of here.” He suggested, grabbing Stanley’s bowl and throwing it onto the floor in an attempt to disrupt it.   
“That’s an idea.” Stanley agreed, getting to his feet. Looking defeated, in terms of both his dinner plans and his ego, Rodney stood as well. Before they can get too far, the stairs were rushed by a pair Mitchell had been hoping he would never see again.

Bully and Scudder from the Weirdness Bearu.

Wait, hadn’t they gone back to their universe after Marshall closed the portal between dimensions caused by the Cable Guy? (seriously was his name like Tim? Or Tam?) Shit, fuck, shit. This was bad. If the dimensional rip had been re-opened then they were in deep.

“You!” Bully shouted, pointing right at him. “You’re under arrest!” Mitchell’s eyes widened, and he turned to look at Stanley, who wasn’t paying attention but instead trying to help a woman whose chicken soup was not blood, but rather, a chicken, alive, sitting in a puddle of soup. He reached out and grabbed Stanley by the arm, forcing him to look. They both looked at Rodney, and the three of them took off.

Rodney led them around a corner and into an employee only stairwell.   
“Are we allowed to go down there?” He hissed.   
“Would you rather take your chances with Canadian rip off X-Files?”  
“Okay good point.” He said, and proceeded to book it down the stairway, Stanley at his heels, just like old times.

The stairway brought them out in the alleyway where the staff took their smoke breaks.

“What do we do now?” Rodney asked, coming to a stop next to him.   
“We need to get to the World O’ Stuff.”   
“What’s at the World O’ Stuff?”  
“Food. It’s my birthday and I’m hungry. Also, a screen I can use to contact Marshall Teller. If this is happening in out Eerie I don’t even want to know what’s going on in his.”   
“What makes you think that Marshall is going to be at his World O’ Stuff?”   
“Because It’s what I’d do.” Rodney ran a hand through his slicked back hair.   
“Someday I hope you explain all of this to me.”

When they first got together, Rodney had demanded that Mitchell should tell him about his whole life of weird stuff. He had, mostly, but left some of the less flattering stuff out. For example, Rodney did not need to know about the time he was forced to bludgeon a small, squishy creature to death with his mother’s wrench after it took control of Ollie’s mind. He himself barely understood the whole multiverse thing, and therefore could not accurately describe it for Rodney.

“I hope to some day being able to explain all of this to myself.” Looking around, he supposed it would be easier to walk rather than a car, as was the traditional Eerie way. They took off down the street, running through street light after street light towards the main road.

They arrive at the World O’ Stuff in record time, which is something that he thinks every time they end up running here, but he thinks it none the less, if he ever writes this down it will make for an interesting sentence start at the very least.

Mr Crawdford does not seem surprised to see them, and he has already prepared three turkey plates for them.   
“Good evening boys.” He said, even though none of them are really boys anymore. “Stanley, may I interest you in some shirts?” He asked, holding up a shirt that Mitchell is sure Stanley already owned.   
“Uh, how much?”  
“On the house.”   
“Oh, thank you.”   
“Don’t worry about it.”   
“Mitchell, got a call for you on the television, right from Eerie Indiana.”   
“Thanks Mr Crawford.” Rodney hopped up onto a stool next to him, looking dejected. “Ah cheer up Rodney. Maybe next year.” Mr Crawford set a row of black cows out in front of them, and clicked the television onto channel six-six-six.

Marshall Teller is a lanky looking man with long hair. He’s alone when he answers the call, sitting on the table inside a ruined World O’ Stuff.   
“Mitchell.” He greets, sounding relieved.   
“Marshall.” He responded, ready to get the pleasantries out of the way.   


“Looks like you’ve been hit by the same weirdness rip.”   
“You look like you’ve killed something.”   
“My soup was blood.” Stanley said, mouth full of turkey.   
“Oh.” Marshall says, looking around the ruined World O’ Stuff. “We didn’t have that. At least, not as far as I know.”   
“What’s happening in your Eerie?”  
“Earthquakes, breakdowns, the dogs are barking, Simon’s new arm tried to kill him, Lake Eerie is boiling.”   
“Oh. Situation normal then,” Mitchell says. Rodney slapped him on the arm. “Where’s Dash X?”  
“He’s in the basement, looking for a way to close the rip.”  
“Where is it this time?”  
“I’m not sure, but I’d hazard a guess to say a television. Yours or otherwise.”  
“Must be a big rip if we’ve got such a good signal.”  
“I was thinking the same thing. Have any ideas where to start in your dimension. No, but I do have my weirdness finder.”   
“I thought the Post Man told you to stop fiddling with that thing.”  
“I thought the Milk Man told you to get a real job.”   
“Touche.”

They looked at one another for a moment, taking in the differences between them. For being the same person, they were both very different on account of the smaller details that changed between their universes.

“Where’s Janet?” As much as Mitchell found it hard to trust Marshall outside of emergency situations, he did trust her. There was something about Janet that he found very likeable, probably the same thing that he would have found likeable about Jamie Donovan, had she not fucked off into another universe on Prom night. That was a mark of sameness between them.

“She gathered up whatever kids she could find and took them into the lost hour.”   
“Was that wise?”  
“If anyone can survive the Lost Hour and protect kids, it’s her.” That was fair.   
“Not to interrupt your lovely catch up, or anything, but can you _please_ go back to figuring out how to save the day?” Rodney asked, eyeing his now mooing black cow suspiciously.   
“Sorry.” They both said, at the same time.

“All you need to do is find the source of the leak and plug it, that should be enough.”   
“Plug it with what?” Rodney asked, standing up and moving away from his overflowing black cow.   
“Usually? Switching channels works.” Rodney looked unconvinced but resigned to spend his night fixing up their home town.

“Come on, let’s not wait.” Stanley said, abandoning his plate, “Do you still have that box we put here in case of emergencies?” He asked Crawford, who produced it from under the counter and set it down. Mitchell riffled through it until he found what looked like a mini television, a fish detector and a bit of a coat hanger.

He remembered this thing well, it was what got him into trouble, and produced his first meeting with his future self. The Post Man. Like the Milkman but you know. He delivered mail. Also had a direct route to the BoLI in the back of his truck, which had come in handy a couple of times.

Rodney eyed the device and then looked back at Mitchell.   
“I wish we could make this town un-weird and be normal again.” He said, as Mitchell grabbed his modified toolbelt of weirdness hunting items. “Where I could take my friends out to a nice dinner and not have to be on the lookout for exploding soup and moving salad.”   
“I have moving salad for a bargain.” Crawford said, helpfully. This didn’t make Rodney feel any better. Mitchell patted him on the arm.

He’d lost count of the times he’s despairingly thought the same thing, usually while running for his life from whatever danger of the week Eerie threw at him. He’d tried leaving Eerie, at one time or another, all of them had. But it always pulled them back, like a rope around the waist. He was, at his core, an M-T. It was his duty to fight weirdness.

“If you leave, no one will think any less of you.” Is what he says, instead.   
“And leave you here, alone? Get real.” Rodney said, and Mitchell can’t help but smile.   
“I know you guys are having a moment.” Stanley said, “But I think we might have a visitor.” They both looked over as Robo Rodney put one skeletal, metallic hand on the counter top.   
“Oh, shit.” Rodney says, looking at it.   
“Oh, shit.” Stanley agreed.   
“Its has a gun hand?” Rodney exclaimed, as the thing aimed it’s weapon at them. “I left you guys alone with a robot that has a gun hand?”

Mitchell doesn’t reply, he’s too busy pulling magnets off his belt. It was going to be a long night, or no night at all.  

 


End file.
